


Empty space

by Avice



Series: The Constant [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, Love, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Reunions, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-09
Updated: 2012-06-09
Packaged: 2017-11-07 09:01:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/429257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avice/pseuds/Avice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reichenbach fall and after. John is mourning and can't move on with his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





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Sherlock forces himself to watch. Watch John’s terror as he sees the body fall down. His shock as he runs closer and the desperation that gripes him as he leans over what he believes to be Sherlock’s body. He did not expect John to suffer so. Why didn’t he see it? He knew it would hurt, but why so much. How come he didn’t realize. Feelings, after all he's learned, they still manage to surprise him. 

Or is it Sherlock’s own reaction that’s more surprising? Watching John suffer is like a fist turning his insides, wringing them, tearing him apart. He knows this is the right course of action and yet it is nearly impossible for him to not run over, to not close John in an embrace and make everything right again. He fights back. He must. He has decided. After all, no matter how real the pain might be, this is just make-believe. Sherlock is not really dead and he doesn’t want to even begin to imagine the feeling of seeing John dead. That is the whole point of this experiment. This cruel, brutal, heartless show. At least John is alive.

Moriarty's plan was brilliant. That can't be denied. Sick and deranged, yes, but very intelligent. There is not a hole in it: Sherlock must die for John to live. His heart burns. But he did find a way for it not to burn him whole. A temporary death – a clever trick Moriarty is not here to appreciate anymore. He'd be proud of his lap dog even though the rules have been broken. It's not Moriarty's game any longer. He lies in Sherlock's grave now, as he should.

Sherlock watches John at the cemetery. Keeps himself close enough to hear. He can't help thinking that with a more advanced mind John would know that he's not really dead. He is ready to admit though that making proper observations would be difficult even for him under the emotional strain John has gone through. Feelings making things harder and stupider again. John is too full of love and warmth to see past them. His John. John, let me hold you, let me show you the miracle – I am alive. John, don’t cry, you're not alone. But he doesn’t move. One of them has to keep a clear mind. There is work to be done. There is John’s life to be saved. 

Moriarty’s death has left a huge power vacuum in the criminal world which keeps Sherlock busy finding and locating the rising competition. Even more dangerously some of Moriarty’s associates and satisfied clients want revenge. Fortunately the Met has sudden luck with capturing several hit men, murderous criminals and even an accountant apparently planning a bombing near an apartment building where a certain ex-army doctor has moved to recently. Anonymous tipsters call or email and surprising evidence arrives by mail to D.I. Lestrade’s office. 

The ingenious arrests are likely the only thing stopping Chief Superintendent from any major disciplinary actions against him for sharing case information with Sherlock. It doesn’t hurt with keeping the ranks in line either as both Donovan and Anderson continue to question Lestrade’s leadership. It does pass his mind that there is something positively sherlockian in the logic behind some of the evidence, but visiting John it is clear that if he has picked up any detective skills from Sherlock, he is in a state rendering them absolutely useless. Poor chap. Whatever the nature of their relationship was, John obviously did love Sherlock.

John has moved back to a bedsit and works part-time at a local clinic. His therapist would have declared him unfit for work, but John insisted that he must be doing something. It is so very lonely and quiet as he sits alone on his bed or wakes up in a pool of sweat from another nightmare. His hands feel empty and useless without Sherlock in his reach. His lips are needless without Sherlock's lips against them. Without Sherlock who would he talk to and what would he say? It is all hollow. 

Lestrade is inclined to side with the therapist as they meet in a pub and John sits hardly listening and staring into his pint as if Sherlock’s face might appear there. The man's heart has been broken. No, correction: the man has been broken. It hurts just to look at him.

Time goes by so painfully slow. A day stretches ahead like an endless desert with an infinite amount of minutes in the sand. But miraculously it does go by. Sherlock keeps himself busy by focusing on the work at hand. It helps. At times the dark shadow behind the leaves is almost hidden. He counts himself lucky to have such an exceptional mind as it is evident that nothing can ever distract John’s. When he can he keeps an eye on him. John passes him limping slowly with his stick but doesn't toss coins any more, hardly seeing ahead of him let alone around him. John, I will come back. I promise. John, I will bring us both back to life. John, you're not alone. 

With the excruciatingly slow passage of time there are fewer attempts at John’s life, not that John himself knows about any of it. The crime in London doesn’t quite get up to Moriarty’s days as the big names seem to kill each other off or find themselves behind bars and the smaller, less talented take over. For once Sherlock doesn't work only for intellectual enjoyment. He has a mission. He works for John. He needs to touch John. It is what keeps him going. It makes him hound in the filth of Europe and beyond to catch anybody that could ever keep him from it. He catches equally and efficiently the brutes and the half-wits as well as the ingenious regardless of whether their plans are brilliant or idiotic. He needs to keep John alive. He needs to feel John.

\--

Time goes by. It has gone for exactly 553 days, 16 hours and 43 minutes. John has a new internal clock. At first the counting helped him in the wait for the passing of the time, which is promised to make it easier. So far it hasn’t. Then it morphed into a way of holding on to Sherlock – counting the steps away from him creates an illusion that there's also a way back. He could go back. He could get to that roof-top on time. He could run fast enough to catch Sherlock. Surely he could. He would be strong enough to hold him. There is a way back. 

On day 395 John did try dating after being harassed by Harry every day for two weeks. He wouldn’t make that mistake again and neither would Harry. John can't imagine a date being any worse. Well, at least he didn't run to the loo to cry. He did wipe a tear from the corner of his eye though when their hands brushed against each other on their way to the restaurant. He thought about what it would feel like if that were Sherlock's hand. How often they exchanged those tiny touches in passing. She probably didn't notice. After that things only got worse. There is no one who could give him what Sherlock did and nothing else he could ever want. Turns out Sherlock was right about these women. Cardboard. 

John heads home after a short morning’s work. He is still on only part-time. The mornings are better for working as they are always busy and he can try to hold on to sleep, to not really being there for a little longer with the routine at work. Waking up to no reason to get up is the worst. That's why on Sundays he forces himself to Baker Street to see Mrs. Hudson and torture himself with dabbling about their flat. Touching Sherlock's violin, checking if any new body parts would have appeared in the fridge, cradling himself on Sherlock's bed and trying to find traces of his scent still in his clothes. The flat has been left as it was. Apparently Mycroft has a soft spot too. 

Outside the clinic hangs around that homeless man again. Or is it a different one? “Spare some change, mate.” He is unusually unrelenting and blocks John's way. John digs into his pockets and finds a few quarters. “Sorry, that's all I've got.” He doesn't notice that the man follows after him. 

“Hey, mate, wait up, you dropped something.” John already has the door half open when he realizes the homeless man has followed him home. He turns annoyed, “What is it?” The man hands over a lighter. John looks at it puzzled. Looks at the man. Suddenly there before his eyes the vagrant straightens up, becomes taller, gains a straight posture. His teeth fall off, no, they come off. They are fake. The expression, the face. He knows it. It's all he knows. “Sherlock?” John manages to whisper. Sherlock reaches out, takes John by the arm and walks them inside the flat.

**Author's Note:**

> I appreciate all comments and feedback on the story, characters and writing.


End file.
